Blood
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: A sequel to Bedtime Stories with Opa. Monroe is all grown up, and he's got some serious thinking about the course that his life has taken now that he's joined forces with a Grimm. With his life hanging in the balance, Monroe fights an inner battle to understand just where it is that he stands with regard to Nick. Pre-slash; re-post due to reader's request.
1. The Color Red and Poisoned Arrows

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing, and online publication of this.

**A/N:** A re-post because someone asked. I had taken this down, due to lack of interest. Without reviews, I assume that what I've written is bad, or that people are uninterested in it, and I take it down.

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It's the color red which sets him off, and, yeah, okay, Monroe has been pretty good at keeping himself under control these days, so this isn't exactly something that he or Nick is expecting to happen. And, the irony of red being his favorite color, as well as the trigger for his woge, isn't lost on him.

He's barely had any slipups. Save for when Angelina stopped by for a 'visit,' after the death of some friends, he hasn't eaten any meat. He sticks to his careful regimen of drugs, a vegetarian diet and exercise, and for very good reason – he likes and wants to maintain his life as a Wieder Blutbad, living among the humans as though he's one of them. It keeps him safe and alive, and gives him the semblance of normalcy.

Of course he's morphed into his Wesen form for Nick on occasion. Once, to protect the Grimm's aunt, he'd rent a man's arm from his body. But, he'd been in complete control of the transformation, and his actions afterwards. If he hadn't, that man would've been brisket for dinner. He wouldn't have had to eat for a week afterwards.

It had reminded him of when he'd been a teenager – the hunts he'd engaged in with Angelina and his family. He'd reveled in the bloodlust, the sheer carnality, and the thrill of the kill. It had been glorious and he'd never felt as alive as he did when he was closing in on their mutual prey.

Monroe's an expert at avoiding the color red. He takes great pains to do so. Stop-sign red isn't a problem, neither is the red of wine, which is more of a maroon or a subdued crimson. The red of his bloody nightmares, courtesy of his violent upbringing, is bright and fiery and could be described as plain, run-of-the-mill red, like the red of blood or Crayola Crayons.

It isn't so much the color itself–fire truck or maybe cherry red – which triggers the woge, but rather the suddenness of it. The unexpectedness of happening upon such a bright color in an environment rich in earthy browns and greens took him off-guard. That and talking to Nick – watching the man's reactions, the way Nick's eyes dilated and sparked with interest whenever he launched into a passionate description of a plant or a bird they saw as they walked along the isolated path in Forest Park.

The walk had been Monroe's idea, to get Nick's mind off of what was going on with Juliette, and to keep the Grimm from spending the whole day brooding or pouring over his ancestor's notes in the tiny, toaster-like trailer of Grimm artifacts he'd inherited from his Aunt Marie when she'd passed.

Monroe had invited the Grimm to stay at his place when he learned that Nick had been living in the trailer; just until this whole Juliette mess got straightened out. So far, things had been working out okay – it had been a month and neither of them had gone for the other's jugular, yet.

Nick slept in the guest room in the attic, or sometimes Monroe would find him sprawled out on the couch in the living room – that usually only happened when Nick came home from work at some ungodly hour of the morning. And maybe it was a habit that had been ingrained in the Grimm from when he'd been living with Juliette, coming home late and not wanting to wake her.

With some reluctance, and being plied with copious amounts of wine, Nick had confided in Monroe that he'd been camping out on the living room couch ever since Juliette had gotten back from the hospital, because she'd been uncomfortable around him. Though it made Monroe's heart go out to the Grimm, he could understand where Juliette was coming from.

To keep Nick's mind from veering toward thoughts of what he could be doing on his day off if Juliette hadn't asked him to leave, Monroe kept up a steady stream of an almost one-sided conversation, telling Nick about everything from the history of Forest Park to how industrialization had nearly been the death of the park to what kind of subspecies lived beneath the shrubbery.

Nick offered occasional, off-handed comments throughout Monroe's lecture, and Monroe paused to allow for questions that the Grimm might have, and he blushed when Nick said that he could be a tour guide for the park. It was a compliment, the way Nick said it, and it made Monroe feel warm, all the way down to his toes.

It's a red jacket, one of those thick, down-filled ones – lying abandoned on the trail right in front of them – that sets him off. Nick's detective instincts kick in immediately, and he kneels to examine the discarded winter garment, but Monroe isn't quick enough to turn away or shield his eyes from the red.

Monroe knows a moment of pure anger and terror and something like passion – all sparked by just the right shade of red – before he transforms into the Blutbad, and then his senses, which under normal, everyday circumstances are already supernaturally enhanced, become even sharper. He crouches and scents the air – something about the coat, the trees, the trail, is off.

_Wolfsbane._ The pungent stench of it hangs heavily in the air – the red coat reeks of it, as does the trail leading away from it and the trees nearest the Blutbad and the Grimm. Aconite is not a plant native to the Forest Park. Someone had placed it there, deliberately.

Monroe reels at the scent which is almost overpowering, but above it, he can smell the Grimm, and his mind supplies the word, enemy. At the same time, he smells Nick, his friend. Enemy and friend, the thoughts dance around each other in his mind and he can't separate one from the other. Nick is both enemy and friend and Monroe is lost in agony. He's not in control of this woge; he's not in control of anything.

Just as he's about to charge Nick, because apparently the term, enemy, has a bigger impetus on him, something happens and he's in excruciating pain. His world becomes a series of bright colors and discordant scents and sounds and he can't separate one from the other. He can't make sense of a single thing other than an overwhelming pain – a burning sensation that runs from this lower back to the base of his skull. Whatever's happened is messing with his senses, and it's impossible for Monroe to revert to his human form.

Monroe's mind tells him that the Grimm must've hurt him, because, really, who else could it have been? They're alone, in the forest. Only he and Nick had known they were going to be there. They're natural enemies, and Monroe has a debt of deaths to repay on behalf of his family.

"Monroe?" Nick's voice is overly loud and Monroe tries to move away from the Grimm, but he can't.

He's trapped, and his back and neck are aflame. He can feel the arrows now, one between his fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, rendering him, in effect, paralyzed. The other – the first to hit – is affixed in the area of his lumbar triangle. Neither hit was meant to kill, but rather to incapacitate, and Monroe has enough presence of mind to realize that this is a trap, he's just not sure who the trap is for – him or the Grimm or both.

"Monroe, can you hear me?"

_Yes, yes,_ Monroe thinks impatiently, and he even opens his mouth to say just that, and to tell the Grimm to stop torturing him. Instead of the words he wants to say, a lone, pathetic whimper escapes past his lips; it's then, as the Grimm touches his shoulder that he realizes he can't see. He's essentially blind, dumb and paralyzed, and at the mercy of one of the greatest enemies of his people.

"Monroe!"

Nick shakes him, and Monroe tries to roll away from the Grimm, but he can't. He's too weak and his head's starting to hurt and he can't breathe properly and he really wants to bite Nick so that the Grimm can share in his pain. He wants to bring the anti-hero of the Wessen world down to the realm Hades with him so that they can grapple at each other's throats as they cross the River Styx. There, they'd be on even ground.

"God, Monroe, I don't know what to do, you've been shot with arrows..." Nick pauses and Monroe imagines the Grimm running a hand through his dark hair, disheveling it even more than the wind had during their walk along the ill-used trail.

"I don't know what was on the arrows. I don't know, and it's, it's smoking. Monroe the wounds are smoking. What do I do? How do I help you?"

_Sorry buddy, you're going to have to figure this one out on your own_, Monroe thinks and then he mentally snarls at himself for using the word, buddy, in regard to the Grimm. Grimms are monsters best left to nightmares and storybooks. They are not 'buddies.'

"I'm going to call Rosalee; maybe she'll know what to do." Nick's voice shakes and Monroe can feel the man trembling beside him.

"I think it's a trap, but I don't know how anyone could've known that we were going to be coming here today. Other than Hank, I didn't…" Nick's voice trails off, and Monroe tries to remember who Hank is.

_Partner_, the word flashes in Monroe's mind, _Nick's partner, _he further clarifies, and then, _cop._

"Crap, there's no signal. Okay, don't panic Nick, there's got to be something around here that you can use to counteract whatever it is that Monroe's been shot with. Think like Monroe."

Had the situation been different, and maybe if he'd have been in less pain, Monroe might've found Nick's external monologue humorous. As it is though, Monroe feels like he's at Death's door and he wants to knock on the door and ask to be let inside so that he can end his suffering.

"What would Monroe do?"

Monroe can feel Nick's hands running along his side and across his back and he's too weak to make them stop. The Grimm's incessant chatter is setting his hackles on edge as well. He can't phase out of his current Blutbad state and it's difficult for him to make sense of what's going on, and why he hurts, why a Grimm is taking care of him instead of finishing him off like he should be.

Monroe can smell the other threat, danger, a Hexenbiest, well before he can hear her, and he growls a warning, low in his throat, surprised that he's actually capable of making the noise at all. It's all he can do, bereft of speech as he is.

Monroe knows what he needs, an antidote that can probably be whipped together, easily enough, with herbs from Rosalee's shop. He has no way of communicating that to the Grimm, his only hope of survival at this point. Provided that the Grimm is able to handle the Hexenbiest on his own.

"Shit," Nick whispers, and Monroe adds a silent, _Duh,_ and an imaginary eye roll to the Grimm's statement.

The Grimm's just a little too late on the uptake. Monroe wonders who the hell was responsible for the man's training. Little bits and pieces of his life, intertwined with the Grimm's, filter through his subconscious and Monroe realizes that he needs to take on some of the details of training Nick on his own, and that he'll need to seriously up that training so that the man has a hope in Hölle of survival.

"Hexenbiest," Monroe manages, somehow, to push the word past his lips. Though he isn't certain that Nick's heard the quietly spoken word, he feels the Grimm tense beside him.

"Hexenbiest," Nick spits the word out, and Monroe feels the hackles on the back of his neck rise when Nick pats him on the back and whispers, "be right back," in his ear.

Worry beats an arrhythmic pattern in his chest as Monroe feels Nick's hand leave him, and Monroe silently curses himself and the Grimm. He curses his own weakness, felled by some unknown poison that has left him blind and useless. He curses Nick's loyalty to him, and the Grimm's infallible sense of right and wrong that often leaves him vulnerable to attack. Wily beasts, like himself and the Hexenbiest, use such human weaknesses to their advantage.

There is no sense of right and wrong, not as humans view it anyway, amongst the Wesen. There is no black and white, and the shades of gray that do exist are extremely grainy, at best. Survival of the fittest is the rule of thumb, and Nick, at least as far as Monroe can recall about the Grimm in his current state of injury, lives by a different creed altogether – one which includes fairness and ideals that are laughed at or largely ignored by Wesen. In short, the Grimm needs to wise up, and big time, if he's going to live to a ripe old age like many of his predecessors.

Even in his weakened state, Monroe can remember Nick's aunt, Marie, and what a deadly foe she had been to his kind. What he can't wrap his head around is why he'd protected the much hated Grimm when she'd been on her deathbed. He recalls Nick asking him to protect her while he was unable to do so, and maiming someone, a fellow Wesen, to keep his promise to the fledgling Grimm.

Such and act goes against everything that he and his family believe in, and Monroe shudders. His skin ripples, and his teeth lengthen, and he wants nothing more than to throw off this poisoned lethargy and fight the Grimm, gain back his freedom. He feels like a beast, a mere dog, on a leash.

He can practically hear his grandfather's voice as the man chastises him for taking up with a Grimm, of all creatures. He can sense his grandmother looking down on him with disgust, spitting out words as venomous as whatever poison had felled him for taking up with a Grimm like one would partner with a life mate.

_Verräterin!_ The viciously spoken word hovers at the edge of his consciousness, and Monroe can feel the eyes of every one of his ancestors on him, condemning him as a traitor to his own kind and his heritage. Ethereal hands reach for him, and he's helpless to fend them off. They grasp and pull at him. Cold, lifeless fingers wrap themselves around his still beating heart, causing him to gasp in shock and pain.

Monroe's life flashes before his eyes: the hunts of his youth; running alongside his friends; zoning in on a kill – the frenetic beating of the heart of his prey as it begged in vain to be set free; the rush of blood thirst – spurred on by the incomparable joy of rendering pain to a weaker species; the heady aroma of fresh blood – a tangy bouquet not unlike that of some of the heavier wines Monroe's had the pleasure of imbibing in; the intoxicating taste of blood slick and thick as it ran down the back of his throat, still warm and throbbing with life. Monroe remembers how he could feel the heartbeat of his kill as it faded into an eternal silence; much like his own heart is doing now.

It isn't fair. Life isn't fair.

As his heartbeat slows, the chants of his ancestors, _Tod zum blutsverräter, _clang loudly in his ears, and their fingers, so many icicles, clench vise like around his heart, cinching tighter with each faltering beat.

If he was in his right mind, Monroe might realize that are were no ghostly beings at work, that it's just the slow acting poison breaking down his bodily functions, killing him with each beat of his heart as it pumps the infected blood through his veins. The poison is a living being, worming its way through his veins, leaving fire in its wake. It makes his skin crawl and his bones creak and his heart grow sluggish with each abating pump. His own blood is killing him.

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Please review and let me know if it is worth posting the next part or not. Thanks


	2. Segnung

**Disclaimer**: See initial chapter.

**A/N**: Thank you to those who've left reviews. I shall reply soon, please forgive me for being slow to respond. Reviews are greatly coveted for this chapter as well.

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The sound of fighting breaks through the bald fear that has Monroe entombed in its cruel clutches, and he pries his eyelids open. The effort it takes him to do this leaves him gasping for air, and Monroe blinks sluggishly to clear his vision.

His senses and reactions are off; the battle sounds miles away rather than a few feet from where he lies, sprawled out at the foot of a great redwood tree – roots digging into his stomach and limbs.

"Grimm."

The Hexenbiest doesn't sound familiar to Monroe, and he strives to keep his eyes open and to focus them on the fight that is happening almost on top of him. It's like he's a member of a macabre audience to a strange, violent play. Blows, which would be fatal to mere mortals, are exchanged in an odd, dancelike fashion.

He can't tell who's winning, and he isn't sure who he wants to win, though his heart tells him that it should be Nick. That, if Nick wins, Monroe will be saved, enemy or not.

"Tell me who sent you," Nick grunts even as he parries a blow.

Monroe wonders where the Grimm had stashed the medium-sized dagger that he's wielding at the unknown Hexenbiest even as his eyes slide shut and he fights to open them once again. In the split second that his eyes were closed, the battle's moved to somewhere outside of his immediate vision, and Monroe strains to hear the exchange.

"No one sent me," the Hexenbiest hisses, "you and this Blutbad here are an abomination to the entire Wesen community, taking up like liebenden."

"Sorry." The word comes out like a huff of air as the breath is knocked out of the Grimm, but Monroe knows the man is far from sorry. "I don't speak German. You're going to have to translate."

"An abomination, blamage," the Hexenbiest shrieks, and then Nick falls, directly in front of Monroe, and his eyes struggle to refocus so that he can see more than just a blur of browns, greens and grays.

The witch has the Grimm pinned, his own weapon is being pressed against Nick's throat, and Monroe thinks that he can see a thin line of blood trickling from a superficial wound. Then the scent of it hits him seconds later, and Monroe cannot contain the growl that rumbles up from deep within him. It isn't a growl of protest, but one of longing. The blood smells succulent – more potent than the blood of other Wesen or animals that he's supped on in his youth.

Monroe can almost feel it, warm and smooth on his tongue – like a decent wine. He can almost taste it – spiced and briny, and soothing, like Nick. He's never wanted something more, and his eyesight grows sharper. The burning in his veins lessens, and he can feel sensation returning to his fingers and his toes.

He lifts his head, not even an inch, and it makes his vision swim. A wave of dizziness threatens to render him unconscious, but Monroe breathes through it. The scent of Nick – cinnamon, coffee and sandalwood – grounds him.

The Grimm's hair brushes against Monroe's forehead as Nick fights the witch. It's soft and Monroe longs to run his fingers through it, maybe rip a few of the silky locks out and keep them hidden somewhere on his person so that he can feel Nick with him even when the Grimm is absent, or rub the strands through his fingers and carry Nick's scent with him everywhere he goes.

It's a confusing mixture of lust and hatred that Monroe feels for Nick as the man continues to fight against a foe that has him pinioned on his back, like a helpless turtle who hasn't the presence of mind to retreat into the safety of his shell. Pride and disgust war for dominance inside of Monroe as Nick manages to wrest the blade from the Hexenbiest and reverse their positions.

The Hexenbiest is revealed in all her hideous beauty, letting her human façade fall in the midst of combat. She's a living, breathing nightmare. Her face is twisted in malice and she claws at Nick with misshapen nails, sharper than the talons of any cat, domestic or wild.

Red flashes in Monroe's peripheral vision; Nick clutches at his thigh, but he doesn't loosen his grip on the witch who screeches in frustration. Her voice sounds like glass shattering in an explosion, and it makes Monroe's insides cringe. Nick shakes his head as the ear-splitting scream disorients him.

Nick grits his teeth and clamps his bloodied hand over the witch's mouth. He bears down on her throat with his dagger, letting it cut into her neck. The pressure is not enough to kill the Hexenbiest, but it's enough to cause blood to bead along the wound.

Monroe wonders why the Grimm doesn't kill her outright. It's what the man should do. It's what he, were their roles reversed, would do. Monroe's eyelids grow heavy and he can no longer hold his head upright. He lets it fall, his chin rams into an upturned root. The adrenaline rush that he felt during Nick's fight with the Hexenbiest – as though the two of them were somehow twinned; their hearts and wills combined – crashes and all he can feel now is liquid sulfur running through his veins as the poison continues to spread.

He knows that there's an answer somewhere, it's niggling at the back of his mind, remaining just out of cognitive reach. He's read about it in a book, some olden lore that had made him laugh aloud at the time. He can even picture the book – bound in worn leather, wrapped up in a brown paper bag – knows which shelf he left it on at Rosalee's shop. The words, written in spindly, black ink, spin and whirl as he's just about to picture them. His mind is failing him, and Monroe can no longer hold onto what little control he has over his true nature.

It's with red, beastly eyes that he regards Nick. If only he could move, then he could wrench the Grimm off the Hexenbiest, free the Wesen from their mutual enemy's control. They could then revel in the spilling of the Grimm's blood.

"Tell me how to help him," the Grimm's words are harshly spoken.

"You'll just kill me," the Hexenbiest says.

"I'll kill you if you don't tell me how to save Monroe." The Grimm presses the knife deeper into the witch's neck, and her blood flows freely.

The witch laughs, a high-pitched, and half-mad cackle. "You won't do it if I tell you."

"Try me," the Grimm's voice is dry, and he lets up a little on the knife.

"The only way to save your precious Blutbad is to give him some of your own blood," the witch says, "and by this time, he's so far gone, that he's no longer the man you've come to know and trust."

Monroe can see the change in the Grimm. His green eyes don't grow dim in defeat, instead they darken in determination and his jaw locks in place.

"How?" the Grimm asks.

"How what?"

"How do I need to give him my blood?" The tip of the dagger digs deeper into the witch's flesh and she flinches.

"You must let a few drops spill from each of your wrists into the wounds in the Blutbad's neck and back, and then you must let the beast taste of your blood. At least a cupful," the Hexenbiest explains, and there is malicious laughter in her voice.

"Provided that he doesn't take more, you should survive. By now your edel Blutbad is so far gone that he might just kill you, and then, with any luck, once he comes to his senses, the bastard will end his own life in a fit of remorse. I'll have killed two birds with one stone." There is no doubting the pride in her tone.

Much to his surprise, Nick ends the Hexenbiest's life quickly, slicing cleanly through her throat and then rolling her body to the side. He wipes the blade on his jeans, cleansing the witch's poisoned blood from it.

The last thing that Monroe sees before he passes out, is Nick leaning over him, and he thinks that this is it, his life is about to end at the hands of the Grimm. The Hexenbiest was right, Monroe has lost control, all save for a little slice of conscience that he's been able to hold onto throughout this insane nightmare.

Nick would be crazy to give him a taste of his blood, because Monroe isn't certain that, once he samples the Grimm's blood, he'll be able to stop himself. Control is elusive at best.

Monroe doesn't feel the removal of the poisoned arrows from his back and neck, nor is he aware of Nick's blood dripping into the wounds from the Grimm's sliced wrists. The next thing he is aware of, however, fills him with terror, because his lips are wrapped around one of Nick's slit wrists and his teeth are latched to the wrist, right down to the bone.

Blood – the likes of which he's never had before – is coursing down his throat in syrupy rivulets. It's hot and powerful, and Nick's heart is beating rapidly, pumping the blood even more quickly through his veins and into Monroe's waiting mouth. It's only a matter of time before that heart will slow its steady beat, and the blood will cease to come hot and swift.

Monroe is torn. On the one hand, he's never wanted anything more than this, and the lust for blood is calling to him. On the other hand, this is Nick, and there's a small part of him which is aware of what the Grimm has done for him, the sacrifice of himself to save Monroe's life.

"Go ahead," Nick's voice is rough and weak, and he raises his other hand from the ground, places it against Monroe's cheek, "take as much as you need."

There's a smile on the man's face, but he winces when Monroe's teeth lengthen just a little as the wolf inside of him takes the Grimm at his word, and he sucks and laps at the freely offered blood. It is invigorating and life-affirming, and Monroe doesn't want to stop drinking, but Nick's smile is fading, and the man's face is paling at an alarming rate.

The Grimm's hand falls from Monroe's face, landing silently on the leaf-littered ground. Monroe can see that the self-inflicted wound on the inside of Nick's wrist. A wound which Nick had given to himself to save Monroe's life. A Grimm willing to sacrifice his own life to save that of a Wesen is unheard of, and Monroe's teeth shrink and he pulls away from Nick's wrist as though burnt.

Monroe can sense his ancestors surrounding him and Nick. He can feel his grandparents' eyes boring into the two of them, even as he removes his sweater vest and wraps it around Nick's torn and bloody wrist in an effort to stop the flow of blood.

"Nick," Monroe gently slaps the Grimm's cheek, "Nick, stay with me."

"M'nroe," Nick's voice is no more than a whisper.

The smile that graces Nick's face holds unadulterated relief, and something that looks an awful lot like love. At least it looks a little like the love that Monroe witnessed between his grandparents and his parents.

_Segnung_, the word hangs in the air between them, and Monroe can feel his grandfather's gnarled hand on his shoulder. The approval of his ancestors is unexpected and almost too much for Monroe to receive all at once.

The words of the book, one purported to be of a prophetic nature, come back to him, and he looks at Nick with new eyes.

_There will come a time when a Grimm shall gift his life's blood to a Wesen of his_

_choosing, and the two shalt be forever bound by heart and blood. The chosen Wesen_

_and the Grimm shalt lie down and sleep together in peace and love for all of eternity._

_Mates by choice of blood freely given and equally freely taken, they shalt, side-by-side,_

_fight against evil until the end of time._

(Gottschalk, verses 152, 153)

"What?" Nick's brows furrow in confusion and he hoists himself up on his elbows.

"You saved my life," Monroe says.

Nick's mouth twists in a look of self-deprecation, and he runs the hand not bound in Monroe's sweater vest through his hair, making it stick up on end.

"Yeah, about that, sorry that it took me so long. I'm afraid that I don't have quite your depth of expertise where poison is concerned. I just hope that this," he gestures between them, "doesn't have any long-lasting or deadly repercussions."

"Depends upon what you think of as a repercussion," Monroe says, and then he leans in, sniffs at Nick's neck, and then brushes his lips against the Grimm's.

Nick shivers and his breath hitches in his throat.

"Oh," he says, and when Monroe settles his weight over the Grimm's hips, careful not to press against the shallow wound on the outside of Nick's thigh that has long since stopped bleeding, Nick repeats the exclamation, "Oh."

Nick smiles, his lips parting and moving along with Monroe's. Monroe isn't even aware that he's still in his Blutbad form until Nick's free hand brushes against the bristles along his cheek. Monroe concentrates; willing himself to change, but Nick shakes his head.

"Please don't," he says. "I kind of like the rugged look." The smile on the Grimm's face lets Monroe know that, though he's teasing, he means what he says.

"Aren't you afraid?"

Nick shakes his head. "You could have killed me just now, but you didn't. I trust you, whether you're in your true form or not. And, if this," he nips at Monroe's chin with dull, human teeth, eliciting a shiver in the Blutbad, "is a long-lasting repercussion," the Grimm shrugs, "I'm okay with that."

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What do you think? Good? Bad? If it's bad...not so sure I want to know. Unless you say it in a constructive fashion. Thanks for reading.


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